


And after the war (he loved you more)

by stereokem



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Fourth Age, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, POV Thranduil, Parent Thranduil, Parental Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Thranduil, Prejudice, Pride, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, culture clash, elven culture, making amends, post-LOTR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 04:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: Thranduil often considers the wisdom of having sent his only son and heir to seek out the Dunedain, and the ranger called Strider.-“Legolas loves you. Is that still an impertinence?”





	And after the war (he loved you more)

**Author's Note:**

> I have, admittedly, not read any of the original Tolkien literature, but I did a reasonable amount of research on the details here. There are a few things I’m ignoring deliberately, like the elves diminishing from ME, but I don’t think it detracts from the story. 
> 
> Also, I am totally aware that it is bad practice in writing to refer to characters by their titles rather than their names, and I usually try to avoid it. However, for the purposes of this fic, I let that rule of thumb slide, because I think it’s important to remind the reader of the dynamics between the main characters, given their positions. Also, Thranduil likes to refer to people by their titles as a means of being snide. 
> 
> I recognize that, because of the way I wrote this, you could read this as Legolas/Thranduil (which is why I included that pairing, sorry), BUT it wasn’t intentional. I merely wanted to convey that they have a complicated, perhaps non-traditional, father-son relationship. 
> 
> Adar: father  
> Nin red: my son  
> Eryn Gasgalen: Mirkwood was renamed Wood of the Greenleaves just prior to the Fourth Age
> 
> Not beta'd! All mistakes are mine. I may revise sometime in the future.
> 
> End Notes: I have this internal head-canon wherein Thranduil goes to Dale following these events and bitches about it to Bard, who just stares at him like, “Are you fucking kidding me? You are such a hypocrite.”

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

He often contemplated the wisdom of having sent his only son and heir to seek out the Dunedain, and the Ranger called Strider.

Though it was no more than eighty years ago, it still seemed like a far-off memory. But, like all painful experiences, he remembered it keenly: the shock of hearing Legolas defy him; the fear of losing him; the sorrow of watching him walk away, with still so much tension between them.

It was a rash decision, Thranduil admitted. Not foolish, but hastily done. He knew he could not prevent Legolas from leaving—his young heart was already determined to do so—but, at the very least, he could give Legolas a known objective, and one with theoretically minimal risk. It seemed, at the time, like a small sacrifice: he was not losing Legolas, he assured himself, but giving him temporary room to grow. How was he to know what a perilous course this would set Legolas upon? How was he to know that his brave, foolish, stubborn brat would insist on aiding the One Ring’s passage to Mordor, and insinuate himself on the frontlines of the great battles for Middle Earth?

But that was of no consequence now. The One Ring was destroyed some five years hence, and Middle Earth had been slowly adapting to the idea that the only evil left in the world was mortal and thus far unremarkable.   

No, the wisdom—or lack thereof—that Thranduil concerned himself with now revolved around other conflicts that arose when Legolas went off to join the Rangers of the North.

Primarily, his association with the new King of Gondor.

Thranduil had met the man twice previously. Once as a youth in Rivendell, then still called Estel; and then once more when he and Legolas had brought the creature Gollum to Mirkwood for safekeeping. Both times, Thranduil cannot remember being anything close to impressed; perhaps he was curious at the youth that Lord Elrond had kept under his care, but the ranger had seemed like little more than a taciturn, unwashed vagrant, if a respectful one.

It had confounded him when Legolas called Aragorn _mellon_ , and confounded him even more when he heard the word stretch farther than its original meaning. To know that this mangy man of the wild was anything more than a traveling companion to Legolas made Thranduil uneasy. As did the glimpses he had caught of them together whilst they were under is domain: walking side-by-side through the halls; heads bent low in conversation; the easy silence between them;  the way single looks beheld entire conversations; the casual touches bestowed by the human, and the way Legolas did not shy from them. It was obvious that Legolas was, perhaps in an innocent way, attached.

Legolas had seldom shown an interest in anyone during his time at Mirkwood. He was much admired by the elves of Thranduil’s kingdom, but he never bestowed particular favors upon any of them, save for Tauriel. Perhaps Legolas had once been in love with her, or thought himself in love; now, they held only a comfortable friendship. But for that one instance, Legolas had never shown any romantic interest or inclination. And that had never worried Thranduil until now.

The idea was alarming, in the very least. Then, only comfort to his nascent unease was the was the knowledge that Aragorn, according to Elrond (who would certainly not spout falsehoods about the matter) was betrothed to the Lady Arwen. Though he knew the ways and hearts of men were often ambivalent, and they were freer with their affections, at least Thranduil could be certain that Aragorn would not dishonor Arwen nor her father by behaving irresponsibly.

But, that was before.

The War for the One Ring had ravaged many lands, torn asunder and obliterated many peoples. Elrond had bid Arwen to go to the Undying Lands and be safe. And Aragorn bade her as well.

It had been a tearful goodbye, according to Elrond, who had stayed behind in Middle Earth to fight. Tearful, but full of understanding. Arwen would not make her father suffer through losing her before her time, and Aragorn could not reconcile with what amounted to killing her simply to be with her. It was a noble decision, Thranduil would give him that.

Only that this decision had now given birth to the current situation.

It was rather difficult to abide.

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Out of respect, Thranduil had made a rare journey to Gondor for the coronation of the new king. He brought gifts from the woodland and had presented them as an offering of friendship between their Kingdoms, disparate though they may be. It shocked many to see the reclusive Elvenking of Mirkwood make an appearance; Thranduil, for his part, made it no secret that he was there, primarily, as a duty to his son. He was received warmly regardless.

Thranduil had in turn been somewhat shocked to see the former mongrelly ranger looking both coiffed and regal, his beard trimmed, hair tamed, clothes fine, and a silver crown upon his head. He delivered a solemn but warm smile to the Elvenking, seemingly genuinely glad of his presence. Thranduil had been invited to dine with the King and the other lords and warriors at the coronation feast, and he accepted graciously. He was given the honor of sitting only three removed from the King, Lord Elrond and two human nobles to his left, and an empty seat that was theoretically reserved for Mithrandir to the right. (The white wizard had disappeared shortly after the coronation, and no one was sure where he went, or if he had gone far; so it seemed best to save his place at the table, just in case.)

From his position, Thranduil was able to view very clearly both the King and his son, who had been given the great honor of sitting directly at Aragorn’s left. Throughout the meal, the King was gracious and strove to include all lords and warriors within respectable earshot into the conversation. However, often during the meal he would bow his head slightly and whisper something to Legolas, which caused him to either grin or laugh. And, when Aragorn was conversing with the others, Legolas’ eyes scarcely left his face. 

Multiple times throughout the feast, Thranduil had caught Lord Elrond looking at him with something maddeningly close to amusement on his features. But when Thranduil testily demanded what he found humorous, Elrond relented, and protested nothing. It went back and forth like this so long that Thranduil was actually glad when Mirthandir showed and proceeded to talk across Thranduil to Elrond. His only choice was to insert himself in the conversation, so as not to be forgotten entirely, or to leave the table. He did the former for an hour, and then excused himself.                

He had arrived in Gondor with an entourage of his people; but this late in the evening they were likely celebrating and reacquainting themselves with the elves of Rivendell that had accompanied Lord Elrond. So, unflanked by attendants, he began to wander the halls of the King’s Keep, pondering to himself. The outer halls around the keep gave way to open air, and he allowed himself to walk in the cool night, illuminated only by the light of the stars.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost did not hear Legolas come up behind him.

“My King.”

Thranduil turned slowly, ever regal. He had not the chance to see or speak to Legolas before the coronation. The last time they had seen each other had been during the Gollum incident, and even then their conversation had been brisk. There was still much tension between him and his only son. It was palpable, and at the mention of “king” Thranduil thought instantly of Aragorn; it made something ugly curl inside him.

“I think your ‘King’ is back in the dining hall,” Thranduil said, and nearly flinched at his own words. However, he was proud, too proud to take them back just yet. He had driven his son away, true, but Legolas had also left him.

Legolas merely looked at him with an even expression. “The world can bear to have more than one king, and so can I.”

Thranduil stood quietly for a moment. He did not quite know what to say to that; so, instead, he said what he should have in the first place.

“I am glad to see you unharmed, _nin réd._ I worried for you greatly.”

Legolas actually smiled at this. “Lord Elrond has said.”

Thranduil attempted to conceal a scowl. Blast Elrond. Blast this horrible rift between them. He felt as if he did not know how to talk to his own son. His only family. He began to speak. “I never wanted—” He stopped. He took in a breath and looked up at the stars, wishing for their strength.

“I only wanted for you to be safe, Legolas. And to remain with me.”

Thranduil found his voice coming out harshly at these words, as if they had clawed their way out of his throat. It both was and was not what he meant to say. Legolas’ expression was determinedly hard, as if he was fighting himself to remain stony. They were, Thranduil reflected, easy words to resist. He could not, even after all this time, submit to his emotions and let them surface; his own reserve wedged like a stone between them, as it had ever since Legolas’ childhood. Thranduil only realized, several millennia too late, what a mistake it had been to shut his son out, to be cold and pitiless both in kinghood and in fatherhood.

After a moment, Legolas looked down, shaking his head once. “I know, adar.” The “ _but I cannot_ ” hung in the air, unspoken but clear.

They both stood in silence for several more moments. From somewhere off in the distance, the sounds of the feast echoed to them.

“You should return to the party,” Thranduil said at last. “You have your friends to celebrate.”

Legolas nodded, almost in a facsimile of his former obedience to his father. He looked at Thranduil hesitantly; then, as if making up his mind, stepped forward.

“Be well, adar.”

And, with these words, he gently clasped Thranduil by the shoulders. It was not a hug, but it was more physical affection than had ever been common amongst the Sindar. It was both unfamiliar, and welcome.

The clasp was brief, and Legolas stepped back momentarily. He was about to turn and head back to the party, when Thranduil called after him.

“Legolas.”

He turned.

“I would like to hear from you, from time to time.”

Solemnly, his son nodded, and then turned to leave.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Thranduil had left early the next morning (early enough that he suspected at least one of his guards was riding his horse still drunk, judging by the way he was listing to the side). It was a relief, once he was back in Mirkwood, and could return to a normal existence. However, the return to normalcy did not stop him from worrying about Legolas.

In truth, Thranduil had expected Legolas to return to Mirkwood once the war had ended—perhaps not immediately; but, duty having been done, and adventure having been had, he thought that Legolas might return to his homeland. He had _not_ expected him to remain in Gondor with the King. All other members of the Fellowship had either returned to their land of origin or, in the case of the ring-bearing hobbit, gone to the Undying Lands. However, it had now been three years since the end of the war and the coronation of the King of Gondor, and Legolas had remained in the White City.

The only benefit to this was that Thranduil received missives from Legolas upon occasion and, through this correspondence, he allowed himself to think that he might tenuously rebuild his relationship with his son.

And, because of this hope, he initially refrained from making any criticism or comment about Legolas’ association with the King, whatever form it took. For the most part, he tried to put it from his mind.

Legolas wrote to Thranduil of the goings-on of Gondor, which inevitably included writings about Aragorn. While acknowledged widely as the true King of Men, Aragorn had expressed a desire to form alliances with all the rulers of Middle Earth; he was intent upon having peace throughout the land, even those not under his reign, and thought (quite rightly) that alliances were the best way to ensure this peace. He had thus far invited many lords and kings to his court, from the far-reaching places of Ered Luin, to the King of Rohan, to the elves from Lorien, and all in between. It seemed to be proceeding well, and Thorin III Stonehelm, Sixth King Under the Mountain after Dain II Ironfoot, had recently invited King Aragorn to Erebor. In response to these letters, Thranduil had, against the desires of some churlish whim, told Legolas to express to Aragorn that he would have the alliance of Mirkwood unquestionably.

It was interesting, if not useful, to receive so much news of the outside world; but not all of Legolas’ letters concerned matters of state. In fact, he seemed only formally interested in discussing the politics; his true fascination seemed to be the King of Gondor himself. Though Legolas was never lavish in praise or adoration, it was plain to Thranduil that he admired Aragorn greatly. The fact that he stayed on as an advisor also indicated the strength of his devotion. Thranduil found all of this quite troublesome, though, in truth, he knew he had nothing to be concerned over. The great evil had been vanquished and, after that, what worry could there truly be?

But he still had his son to think of. A father’s worry is often insurmountable, and sometimes unreasonable.

He only hoped, selfishly, that this infatuation too would pass.  

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

Irritatingly enough, confirmation of his fears came not from Legolas, but from Lord Elrond.

The Lord of Rivendell paid Mirkwood a visit in the autumn of the seventh year of the Fourth Age. Thranduil was admittedly surprised to see how wizened Elrond looked. Though he had long passed the stage of physically aging, there was a weariness about him that was unmistakable. As Peredhil, he had a choice as to whether he would be immortal or mortal, and he had delayed his decision for far too long. Thranduil knew that many of the elves had already gone to the Undying Lands, and those that hadn’t were diminishing. He wondered what the Fourth Age, the Age of Men, would mean for their kind.

It came as no surprise when Elrond told him that he planned to journey to the Undying Lands within the next year, to join Arwen and his wife.

“And how is Arwen?”

“She is well. I am anxious to see her.”

“And what of Rivendell? Will it fall to ashes in your absence?”

“I should hope not. Elladan will take my place. In fact, he and I have been to Gondor recently to ensure King Aragorn that the alliance with Rivendell with continue after my passing.”

“I am sure Gondor was relieved.” As if there was a reason to be worried.

“Indeed.” Elrond paused, and seemed to consider Thranduil for a moment. “And what of you, my friend? When will Legolas take your place as King?”

Thranduil frowned deeply at this. He had wondered this himself from time to time, but never for very long; as immortals, there was no pressing need for Legolas to ascend the throne. Still, when Legolas had been younger, Thranduil had always assumed that he would be succeeded by his son; now, he was not as sure.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Lord of Rivendell? Do I seem, to you, long in the face?”

Elrond smiled easily, almost indulgently. “No, my friend. You are as timeless and radiant as ever—” he paused whilst Thranduil scoffed. “I was simply wondering when Legolas might return to his people.”

Thranduil’s expression darkened, and he drank almost angrily from his goblet. Without much forethought, he said, “The King of Gondor will die, eventually.”

Elrond’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but his tone was mild when he replied: “Then you are aware of the closeness between your son and the king.”

Thranduil found himself scowling into his wine, the inky surface turned black in the night. “His devotion is well-known.”

“I think it is not one-sided.”

“What are you implying?”

Elrond finished the last of his wine. There were no attendants in the room that evening, allowing them to converse in utter confidence, so it was left to Thranduil to reach for the decanter and refill his guest’s goblet. Elrond folded his hands in his lap as he watched Thranduil pour, and said: “I am merely making an observation which you, surely, have also made. I believe that Legolas and Aragorn have found companionship with one another.”

At this, Thranduil set the decanter down harder than expected, making the glass clunk loudly against the wood of the table. Still gripping its handle, he glared at Elrond, eyes narrowing, heart beginning to race slightly. “You have proof of this?”

Elrond smiled enigmatically. “My visit to Gondor was most enlightening.”

The words washed over Thranduil and dissipated into the clear night air. He forced himself to let go of the glass decanter and sit back in his chair. His lips pressed together in a tight, thin line, and he gazed heatedly into the distant night. The trees whispered and several night creatures whistled, filling the silence.

 _Why must he hear this from Elrond?_ He wondered angrily. _Why would Legolas say nothing to him, to his own father?_

But these questions were only hurtful; Thranduil _knew_ why. He blamed himself, gave himself credit where it ws due. But he could help but also blame the man who seemed to cause all this mess.

While Thranduil preoccupied himself with his unsavoury thoughts, Elrond watched him quietly, eventually tilting his head to one side and asking, “You disapprove?”

Thranduil answered curtly and immediately.

“How can I not?”

“What grudge do you hold against men? Surely I need not remind you that such unions between races are not unheard of.”

“I am aware, _Peredhel_ ,” Thranduil said tightly. “That does not mean I would wish it upon my son.”

“Do you think Legolas is making a poor choice?”

Thinking of Legolas filled Thranduil with pride, fondness, and sorrow in equal parts. “A foolish choice— but he is young, and quite possibly entitled to them. The King of Gondor, however, I cannot speak for. Do you not find it objectionable that he once courted your daughter, and now courts my son?”

“The hearts of men are not as ours. I do not think his affection for Legolas makes his love for my daughter any less. The lives we lead are convoluted, our fates unclear. I find it difficult, in these times, to judge others for their choices, especially when they concern themselves with happiness.”

Thranduil had little to say to this. And Elrond, not wishing to darken Thranduil’s mood even further, or invoke his notorious temper, eventually swept the conversation into other topics. Thranduil managed to return himself to conversation without serious ill humour, and they talked well into the night. However, when Lord Elrond left his chambers, and Thranduil prepared himself for rest, he revisited their earlier conversation.

His sleep that night was fitful. However, once he had seen Lord Elrond and his entourage off the next morning, he was resolved to invite Lord Aragorn to break journey in Mirkwood, when he made his way to Erebor and Thorin III Stonehelm.

He did not wish to see Aragorn. As far as he was concerned, the alliance between their kingdoms meant only aid in times of war, and cordiality in matters of diplomacy. It did not mean that Thranduil was obligated to like the King of Gondor, or seek out, much less enjoy, his company. However, he was anxious, even after only these seven years, to see his son again. He would tolerate Aragorn’s presence for that.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Once word had spread amongst the elves of Mirkwood that their Prince _and_ the King of Gondor would be visiting, the fortress was alive with preparations, most of which Thranduil oversaw himself. In the past, he had left such things to the Master of Ceremonies; however, he wished to make his son feel as at home (and, he admitted, homesick) as possible, and so saw to it that every comfort and delight would be provided for. The King’s traveling party was scheduled to arrive in Mirkwood a week before the autumn equinox and remain for three nights. It was, in Thranduil’s opinion, both too short and too long a visit. His invitation to Gondor had been deliberately sent without limitations on time; it was, therefore, the King’s decision to stay for such a short time.

(Or, perhaps it was Legolas’s.)

Regardless, Thranduil did everything in his power to ensure that his son (and the guests in tow) would want for nothing. He designed not to overwhelm the traveling party with a formal feast until the second night, but he did see to it that exquisite food would be aplenty throughout the visit. The wine cellars were stocked full and, though it was not commonly drunk amongst Mirkwood elves, Thranduil had seen to it that they had a supply of mead and ale as well, compliments of Dale.

As for the third evening, Thranduil had deliberately made no arrangements. Originally, he had designed to orchestrate a private evening with Legolas, but quickly thought better of it. As much as he wished to, he would not force his son to see him. Even he had the sense to realize that this was the worst thing he could do, in the circumstances.

So, he left his evening open, in the hopes that Legolas might approach him.

His Master of Ceremonies had encouraged him to arrange a private dinner with the King of Gondor, but Thranduil dismissed the idea. He would do all that was required to ensure that the King and his party was well-taken care of; however, he would not extent his good graces beyond that limit. He would be forced to speak with the King of Gondor at the feast, but he would not further subject himself to the man’s presence.

The King’s party arrived late in the day, when the sun was almost completely set behind the horizon. Upon entering the Kingdom of Mirkwood, they were not brought straight to Thranduil. Instead, a steward meet them at the west gate, and led them to their quarters; there, they could rest from their journey and take their supper in peace. He had been told ahead of time that the Gondorian party would number about thirty, with three dignitaries besides Aragorn and Legolas. Thranduil had the majority of the party installed in the enormous guest quarters of the lower levels, rooms so large as to comfortably house six men each. The dignitaries were given private quarters on the same level. For the King of Gondor, Thranduil had arranged for a lavish room befitting royalty.

For Legolas, Thranduil left the decision up to him as to where he would stay; another room, similar and close to Aragorn’s, had been prepared, but the Prince’s private chambers (empty and untouched since he left) were also made ready for his return.

Though Thranduil did not greet the party himself, he received word from his steward that all had settled in comfortably. He told himself that he was only mildly disappointed that Legolas had elected to stay in the room near Aragorn.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

Thranduil slept little that night; it was only once he was lying in bed that he realized that his desire to see Legolas was also mixed with apprehension, and the revelation kept him up half the night. However, getting little sleep was becoming commonplace, and it was the one area in which he was beginning to show his age. Only young elves needed much sleep; and so, though the night granted little respite, he rose the next morning without weariness, only a sharp irritation burrowing under his skin. He dressed slowly, willing the feeling into a manageable simmer before leaving his chambers.

The attendants serving the Gondorian party had been given instruction to show them the utmost hospitality. The warriors were encouraged to make use of the armory, tourney courts, and archery field, or to take their leisure, as was their whim. As for Aragorn himself, Thranduil had arranged for a tour of the royal gardens, but nothing more. Typically, two kings would spend a great deal of time in confidence, discussing politics and so forth; but, as King Aragorn’s business was mainly with Erebor, Thranduil was mostly content to leave him alone. There were plenty of other matters for the Elvenking to attend to,and he hoped to calm himself by means of distraction. Even he was aware that his temper was legendary, and he did not want to make it any more so by having an outburst that would result in political catastrophe. 

However, it was only a matter of time before his son sought him out, and the thoughts which he had been studiously ignoring were awakened anew.

Fairly, Legolas was careful to not mention Aragorn at first. Legolas had met with Thranduil in the throne room and suggested a walk about the palace. Thranduil readily agreed, and they walked in a tense sort of silence for some time. They ascended to the upper levels of the palace, and began walking the battlements, allowing them a spectacular view of the surrounding forest, which shimmered in many shades of green under the autumn sun.

“It is brighter here than I remember.”

Thranduil, having sunk quite deeply into the silence, was somewhat surprised to hear Legolas speak. “Indeed so,” he replied slowly. “There are still parts of the forest that are riddled with darkness, but the lands immediately surrounding us have recovered, somewhat. We have renamed it _Eryn Lasgalen_.”

“Yes. I am relieved that my homeland is no longer quite so perilous.”

Legolas paused, looking out to the west. The sun illuminated his fair skin and hair, making him glow golden. His blue-grey eyes were as bright as crystals. He was truly beautiful, even among elves.

“This is, indeed, still your home,” Thranduil said quietly, watching his son’s profile. “You are welcome to return whenever you like, for as long as you like.”

Legolas turned back to him, a soft smile resting on his lips. “Thank you.” He paused. “I have enjoyed receiving your letters. It is as if . . . I am getting to know you again.”

Thranduil stiffened at those words. He knew full well that he had not been the most open or affectionate father, but every reminder of how severely he had closed himself off from Legolas was cutting. He could not excuse himself, only resign himself to the fact that the heartache and pain he felt over the deaths of his wife and his people had made him cold and pitiless, even to his own flesh and blood. Legolas deserved better.

Whilst Thranduil preoccupied himself with these thoughts, Legolas spoke up again. “Have you held audience with . . . with Aragorn, yet?”

Thranduil prickled at the mere sound of the name. “No. Decorum, of course, dictates that I must; he will take a place of honour at my side during the feast this evening.”

Legolas frowned. “A feast is hardly a place for meaningful conversation.”

Unable to help himself, Thranduil curled a lip. “Precisely.”

Legolas looked down for a moment; his hands twitched, as if he would rather be holding something to occupy them. “He is eager to meet you properly.”

It was not quite surprise that Thranduil felt, but something more akin to a snide curiosity. “Is he? Why do you think that?”

“He has said so.” Legolas paused, tilting his head slightly. “I think . . . I think you might like him, if you let yourself.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “If I let myself?”

Legolas bowed his head slightly, an odd expression playing across his features; it seemed to be sitting firmly between a good-natured smirk and a grimace. “Forgive me for saying so, adar, but your prejudices have changed little in the last century. I know your thoughts on the race of men, especially their kings. You may not believe me when I say it, but they are not all bad.”

It was still surprising to hear his own son criticize him in such a way. Prejudice, indeed.

“He is welcome to change my opinion on the subject,” Thranduil replied crisply, beginning to walk the battlement again. As much as he wanted to question his son directly about the implications made by Elrond, Thranduil also found he did not wish to discuss this subject any further.

Legolas, relenting, gave the barest of sighs and fell in step with him. They continued walking along the battlement, and Legolas turned their conversation to matters less fraught with disagreement. Now that they had broached the topic of conversation he had been dreading, it was relieving to speak with his son. Their conversation was not easy, sometimes stilted from lack of practice; but the more they continued, the more fluid it became. In that moment, he felt keenly how Legolas’ absence from his life had affected him. To do something as simple as speak with his son in the confines of his own kingdom filled him with profound affection.

It was an hour before Legolas took his leave, and only then to visit the archery range and the old master archer who had taught him, Voronwë. It was with reluctance that Thranduil let him go.

Once Legolas had gone, Thranduil went back to his chambers for a moment’s respite before going to the throne room, where he sat and heard the grievances of those who would approach him. Time seemed to pass quickly, and it was not long before evening arrived, and the feasting with it.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

As he stepped into the great hall that evening, he was met with a sight of utmost grandeur. It was no secret that the elves of Mirkwood were fond of celebrating; as such, the great hall was seldom in disuse, and decked in splendour year-round. Tonight, however, it was an especially arresting sight, every effort having been made for the Prince of Mirkwood and King of Gondor. Candles glimmered by the thousands, casting soft yellow light upon the hall. The light was brightest along the long tables, where luminescent fruiting bodies had been collected from the forest and were placed among centrepieces of fragile mosses and tiny white flowers. The tables themselves were laden with food enough to sate an army, and barrels upon barrels of wine stood conspicuously in one corner, waiting to be uncorked. A space had been cleared in the middle of the room, directly before the high table, meant for music, dancing, and conversing.

In addition to the thirty men, there were, perhaps, three hundred elves. Far from being overwhelmed by being out-numbered, Thranduil saw that Gondor’s people and his own were conversing freely and easily, standing elbow-to-elbow, glasses of drink in hand.

As Thranduil passed through the party-goers, he was bowed to by all in his immediate vicinity, whilst others farther away merely turn their heads to look. The attention and respect paid to him created a ripple in the crowd. Even without the weight of royalty, he cut a striking figure: almost a head taller than the current company, white-blonde hair set regally about his shoulders, his steps measured and commanding. He wore robes of silver, the cuffs and collar gilded with small teardrops of blue spinel, making his eyes seem both brighter and deeper. Even without the delicately braided silver crown, he could be recognized as a being of great power.

He approached the high table and, as he did so, the entire hall fell silent. He surveyed them all, spotting Aragorn (with Legolas close by), in the middle of the crowd. But for his crown and vaguely kingly attire, which he seemed to wear with fatigue, he would have looked very ordinary. Thranduil gestured to him, and those immediately surrounding him stepped back. Aragorn watched him with interest.

“Tonight, we celebrate the King of Gondor,” he said, deep voice ringing out clearly through the hall. “May his reign be long and peaceful, and may our kingdoms benefit from enduring friendship.”

At that moment, an attendant appeared by his side with a crystal glass filled with white wine. Thranduil took the glass and lifted it, nodding to Aragorn.

After this toast to the King of Gondor, the feasting began in earnest. Thranduil watched Aragorn extract himself from the pair of elves he had been talking to and approach the high table; meanwhile, the floor cleared as elves and men settled themselves at the long-tables, and a quartet of musicians entered the empty space. Their playing was not loud, but the acoustical properties of the hall allowed it to carry easily over the air, providing a pleasant background to the ubiquitous chatter.

As Aragorn ascended the high table, Thranduil inclined his head and gestured for him to sit. The King of Gondor was dressed finely this evening in a robe of deep red. It was his privilege to be the only one wearing that color this evening, and he stood out quite plainly. He gave a small bow to Thranduil before taking his seat.

“Your highness,” he said, and try as he might, Thranduil could not detect an iota of insincerity in his address.

“Your highness,” Thranduil returned coolly. A servant approached and offered Aragorn the choice of wine or ale. He took the wine.

“You do me a great honour with this feast,” Aragorn said, nodding at the hundreds of elves.

“And you do us an honour by bringing our prince home for a visit. I confess, I was beginning to wonder if he would ever return.”

The words were almost accusatory, as if Aragorn had deliberately been keeping Legolas away; however, Aragorn seemed not to take the slightest offense.

“In all sincerity, your grace, I believe he was homesick.”

Thranduil clenched his jaw slightly, drinking deeply from his wine. It was foolish of him to mention Legolas so quickly. He could feel his temper readily flaring. “Is that so?”

Aragorn nodded. “Legolas has told me that he left home in a hurry; that he essentially self-imposed his own exile.”

Unwilling to look at the mortal king further, Thranduil turned his gaze to the musicians. He fixated in particular on the one playing the Sindar harp; his long, deft fingers plucked the strings skilfully, like white spiders plucking a web.

“It was his time, I suppose.”

Aragorn tilted his head slightly. “Time?”

Thranduil turned his gaze to Legolas, who was conversing unconcernedly with Voronwë at his table. “Some species of bird remain in the nest for as long as possible; others become fledglings before their wings are fully developed, or before they can fly. Even still, some birds jump from their nests, at great heights, hoping to land on forgiving ground. Such is the way with us all.”

“Indeed. Though I would say that some of us are pushed from the nest before we are ready. The nest itself can be a perilous place, prone to defilement and predation.”

It took considerably longer than it should have for Thranduil to realize that Aragorn was not, in fact, making a comment on Thranduil’s relationship with Legolas, but rather referring to his own childhood and adolescence. Even still, he could not help the double-edged question:

“And do you resent being pushed?”

Aragorn thought for a moment. Several servants brought forth plates laden with various foods and laid them prettily upon the table before retreating to their places. Aragorn waited until they were out of earshot before replying:

“I do not think I could, even if I wanted to. In the end, we choose our own fates; our points of origin are only part of our stories.”

Thranduil frowned. _. Perhaps, for men._

Summoning his tact, Thranduil turned the topic of conversation to the remediation of Mirkwood. It was a prosaic topic, albeit a safe one, and Aragorn participated with all the appearances of a man who was genuinely interested. Legolas had been correct in his assessment that Thranduil’s opinion of the race of men was generally low; moreover, Thranduil had fully expected the Gondorian King to lower it further. But, much to Thranduil’s ire, he could not find real fault with Aragorn. The man was pleasant, deferent, exhibited no trace of hubris, and was unruffled by Thranduil’s general chilliness. He listened as much as he spoke, and his words were measured and well-thought. Thranduil had half been expecting an echo of the rough, unkempt Ranger he had met all those years ago; it was irritating to see how well Aragorn had adapted to his new role.

What was more, not once did Aragorn turn to look at Legolas, who was seated at a side table nearest to Thranduil, and was only a stray glance away. He kept his focus solely on Thranduil and this, more than anything, was disturbing. What was he playing at?

Meanwhile, Thranduil was keenly aware of Legolas’ eyes on them. He knew the feeling of being studied, and he knew the feeling of Legolas’ gaze more keenly; as a child, Legolas had sometimes merely followed his _adar_ around like a small duckling, utterly silent and watchful. Legolas had always been a serious child, but after the death of his mother, his austerity had grown into a being unto itself. Lately, Thranduil found himself wondering how much he was to blame for this. Did Legolas choose his own fate? Or was he merely a product of his father’s folly?

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at Aragorn, who was speaking now of Rohan and its resettlement under a new king. Thranduil barely heard him, only looked at him with intense scrutiny, trying to make him out. He observed the planes of his face: the pronounced ridge of his brow, which threw his eyes into shadow; the strong nose, which showed evidence of having been broken at least once; the coarse beard, which obscured his mouth and made him look secretive and shrewd. His skin was beginning to show signs of age, as was his beard and hair, combed into submission and speckled with strands of grey. He was, overall, unremarkable, merely a man. The eyes were the only truly lovely part of him: bright blue, like crystalline pools upon which sunlight danced.

Thranduil thought again of Legolas, of those years they had spent apart, when he had not known where his son was or what had become of him. What had happened during that time? From what he understood, and what Lord Elrond had told him, Legolas had endured a great deal of peril and loss. Thranduil himself was familiar with both and had done his utmost to shield Legolas from such things; but, out in the wild with only a handful of companions, Legolas had been faced with these harsh challenges. Loss, perhaps, he felt more keenly than peril. Who had he turned to for comfort? Thranduil had not been there; but Aragorn had.

Was it merely a convenience of circumstance? No. If it had been, Legolas would have parted ways with Aragorn after the One Ring was destroyed—yet, he had remained at his side. Contrary to popular belief, Thranduil was familiar with love, and even some of its lesser permutations that affect young hearts more than most; was Legolas merely infatuated? But why?

Had Thranduil driven Legolas to this? Was this, somehow, his own fault?

Such thoughts plagued him well into the feast, so much that his responses to Aragorn became increasingly impolite. Aragorn, far from being angry or insulted by this behaviour, continued their conversation as if nothing was amiss—which, consequently, angered Thranduil even further. Thus, it was a great relief once the dancing finally began.

It was seldom that a mortal man came into their midst who was versed in elven dances, much less a fair king, and Aragorn was quickly escorted to the floor by one of Thranduil’s generals. He did not want for dance partners the rest of the evening, only for a moment to catch his breath (and, even when he stopped dancing, the men and elves around him were eager to supply him with refreshment or company). His smiles and laughter were quiet, but seemed infectious to those around him, and he drew company to him without effort. He seemed so much more at ease than when he had been sitting with Thranduil.

Especially when he danced with Legolas.

In Thranduil’s memory, Legolas had never been overly fond of the dancing that took place at their celebrations. He was a skilled dancer, as were all elven warriors; Thranduil himself had taught a young Legolas both the arts of dance and blade. Previously, Legolas’ austere nature prevented him from immersing himself in such a frivolous activity, sacred as it was to the Eldar. However, this evening, he did venture to the dancefloor and, every so often, extended his hand to Aragorn to ask for the dance.

When this happened—when the elven prince approached the king of men— no spectacle was made, as Thranduil had feared it might. The crowd of onlookers and other dancers regarded this event as no different from other couplings, except to give them a slightly wider berth, and that more eyes watched them than with other couples. The significance of this was not lost on them.

Nor was it lost on Thranduil, wish as he would to remain ignorant. Legolas and Aragorn danced a slow _cantalë luin_ , and in their next dance a faster, more joyful _cantalë siyra_. Legolas lead them effortlessly, turning them around the floor and weaving around other couples without ever taking his eyes from Aragorn. With other partners, Aragorn had engaged them in conversation, punctuated with laughter; but neither Legolas nor Aragorn spoke when they danced together, only looked at each other with warmth and fondness, exchanging silent jokes and laughing with their eyes.

And not once did Legolas look to his father.

A small, irrational part of Thranduil angrily wished that Legolas had asked him for permission. Legolas did not need to, of course, but Thranduil wanted at least the chance to say no, to express his disapproval openly. Legolas had not even glanced in Thranduil’s direction before approaching Aragorn for their first dance, though many other eyes had done so reflexively. Other than this, he was paid little heed. He had never felt so keenly like a wallflower.

Sometime later in the evening, Thranduil grew weary of sitting alone at the high table, watching the proceedings while he poured himself deeper into his wine. He stood to leave just as the first notes of another slow dance began; he had turned his back and exited the hall just as Legolas and Aragorn began another dance. Few turned to watch him leave.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Thranduil did not retire immediately to his rooms. Instead, he walked the quiet, moonlit halls of the fortress. Though he did not have an intended destination, he did not wander; rather, he walked with a purposeful stride towards nothing in particular.

His resolute steps took him through shadowed halls, past silent guards, and eventually out once more onto the battlements that he and Legolas had walked only hours before. While beautiful and lush in the daytime, the forest at night still held fast to its old fierceness, almost as if it became a different entity in the darkness. The trees themselves seemed to whisper in the occasional breeze.

There was something about the grimness that appealed to Thranduil; he found it well-suited to his brooding. In fact, he could have easily worked himself into a proper strop, if not for an untimely interruption.

“Forgive me, King Thranduil. Are you not well?”

A sharp sting of annoyance ran through Thranduil, almost like a physical pang, at the sound of Aragorn’s voice. He refused to turn to face him, continuing to stare out into the vast forest. “I am,” he replied stonily.

“You left so suddenly.” It was not a question, but had an air of uncertainty to it.

“How kind of you to take notice.”

The air surrounding them became stiff, suddenly, as Aragorn’s approach came to an abrupt halt. “I simply wondered if you were unwell, your grace.”

Thranduil looked again across the dark and living canopy of the forest of Mirkwood, watching as the trees twisted fitfully with what felt like his own anger. Blast this mortal man and his ridiculous decorum, his insipid politeness. Thranduil was quite finished pretending to be anything but angry and inconvenienced.

“And _I_ was simply removing myself from an unpleasant situation,” Thranduil returned, voice gelid and stony.

There was a brief pause; then:—

“What situation might that be?”

“Your fraternization with my son.”

Thranduil turned then, facing Aragorn fully. The King of Men stood still several feet from him, watching him with an expression that was assessing but unperturbed. The scant moonlight cast deep shadows into his face, making him look older than he really was.

“You disapprove, then.”

A bitter scoff escaped Thranduil. Perhaps it was the echo of Lord Elrond’s words, or the idea that his thoughts on the subject mattered at all. “Once upon a time, my approval held some weight for Legolas. He seems to think little of it now. Your approval is much more valuable.”

“King Thranduil—"

“Do you deny it? Is Legolas in _love_ with you?”

The word “love” came from his mouth like it was something foul, some poison he had to spit out. Even so, he regretted his words immediately. This was a question he knew the answer to, but did not wish to hear aloud. He did not know if he could bear it.

Aragorn studied him for a moment, letting Thranduil’s outburst of ire dissipate into the cool air before responding slowly: 

“I will not speak for Legolas. I can only tell you that I care for him dearly— more than I can say with mortal words.”

Far from soothing Thranduil, Aragorn’s words made him seethe. _Mortal words,_ indeed. He took three long steps towards Aragorn so that they were about a pace apart and Thranduil could use his impressive height to look down upon him, asserting his dominance. It was a move that would have made a lesser mortal quiver or draw back, but Aragorn stood his ground, resolute but respectful.

“What do you propose to gain from this?” Thranduil said quietly, both seething and sneering at the same time, his ordinarily beautiful face twisted in a snarl. In this moment, he looked more dangerous than ethereal, a side of elves (and of him) not often seen. “He is not a _princess_ , like your dear Arwen— he cannot give you heirs to rule in your stead. Nor is he Peredhel. He cannot give up his immortality for you.”

Throughout Thranduil’s display, Aragorn’s composure did not waver; even the mention of Arwen—meant as a deliberate jab— did not faze him. In fact, his expression became very quietly amused, and it showed in his voice when he answered mildly: “I would not ask either of him, even if it were possible.”

“Then what do you want?”

“His company,” Aragorn said simply. “And your blessing, if you will part with it.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring. The sheer _audacity_. “My . . . I can hardly give you my _blessing_. I do not _know_ you, _Estel_ — and you do not know him. He has been my son for nearly three-thousand years and we have lived apart for a mere fraction of that time.”

“But I do know Legolas,” Aragorn returned evenly. “And I would continue to learn to know him, as long as he will let me.”

Thranduil found himself gaping for a moment, shock finally catching up with him. In all his years, and in all his interrogations with lesser beings and mortals, none had ever defied him with such unmovable confidence. Aragorn’s will was like stone, and no matter how Thranduil lashed at him, he remained steadfast. This was, perhaps, the most maddening thing of all.

“How dare you. . . how dare you enter my kingdom and present me with such impertinence?”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows, his expression shifted slightly. His voice, when he spoke next, was almost entirely curious: “Is love an impertinence?

Thranduil replied without hesitation.

“It is to me.”

Aragorn was silent for a moment. Not once during this confrontation had he broken gaze. Now, his eyes wandered over Thranduil’s shoulder, where the forest of Mirkwood thrashed quietly like a fretful sea.

“Legolas loves you. Is that still an impertinence?”

It was as if the wind had been sucked from him, and his combative tongue with it. He could think of nothing to say to this, though the words made his heart twist painfully. Thranduil simply stared at Aragorn in silence, while the latter continued to look over his shoulder, almost as if lost in thought.

“I know you grieve for him. I know you would steal him back if you could. And you can, as long as he will let you. I think he will, when the time comes. You may very well have him for all the millennia of this age and the next. My time with him is brief in comparison, King Thranduil. Please let me have it while I may.”

At this, he did turn his gaze back to Thranduil. The moonlight had shifted so that a sliver fell right across Aragorn’s face, going from temple and down across his eye to his cheek, almost like a white scar. The eye caught in the light glowed in the silver moonlight, and Thranduil could see clearly, for the first time, that these were not the eyes of a young man: the blue of them sparkled, but it was a muted color, almost grey, and the limbal ring around them was fading into obscurity. Aragorn carried his age well, but one could not deny that what he said was true: to an elf, the amount of time he had left on this earth was very short.

“It is not that I think myself worthy of your son,” Aragorn said quietly. “I imagine I will spend many hours of each day proving my worthiness to him. But I am in the last years of middle age, and I would like to experience happiness unadulterated, while I am able. I am sure you can appreciate that.”

A soft puff of air escaped Thranduil, the quiet scoff surprising itself out of his mouth. “How selfish of you,” he said, but the words lacked all venom.

Aragorn gave a small shrug. “I am human. Could you expect any less of me?”

Thranduil could think of nothing to say to this. He felt depleted. The ire and indignation he had been clinging to so fiercely had fled from him, and he was left with little but a general feeling of exhaustion and defeat. He was stubborn enough that he would scarcely admit to it, but it was there, nonetheless.

Silence passed between them for several minutes, Thranduil looking at Aragorn, and Aragorn once again looking out at the dark forest. Finally, when it was apparent that all chance of further words had evaporated, Aragorn looked to Thranduil again. He gave a small bow and silently took his leave, turning his back and returning to the party. 

Thranduil stood unmoving for some time after that, continuing to stare into the space where Aragorn had been. His entire form was made pale and stony in the moonlight, and he stood with such stillness that any passers-by might have mistaken him for a statue.

It was only when his tangled thoughts made no more sense to him that he finally moved. He left the garden in a trance, and returned not to the party, which would rage well without him, but to his private chambers. There, he dressed for sleep and retired to his bed.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Much like the night previous, he slept little, and arose resigned to his own apprehension. Though he had spent the entirety of the night replaying and considering the words exchanged between Aragorn and himself, he had reached no satisfactory conclusions or reassurances. Aragorn’s words had perturbed him, but not enough to dispel Thranduil’s natural anger; combined with his unsettlement, the entire affair put him in the foulest of moods.

As he sullenly dressed himself, he found himself wishing for a moment that Elrond were here—and immediately retracted the thought. Knowing him, Elrond would probably take Aragorn’s side. _A great deal of help he is._

When he left his chambers, the majority of the fortress was still dormant—sleeping off their drunkenness or nursing hangovers, no doubt. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in Mirkwood; in fact, Thranduil often took advantage of his subject’s propensity to indulge. He enjoyed having full reign of the fortress with seldom a soul to bother him, to walk its halls in the daylight as opposed to skulking around in the night.

However, most of the fortress was built into a dense knot of great old trees, and even more of it was built underneath them, in caverns and carved around their roots. In order to truly bask in the sunlight, he would need to venture outside and above-ground; thus, he chose to make his way towards the stables, situated on the north side of the fortress.

He passed only the odd (and thankfully silent) guardsman as he made his way through the fortress, and it did not take him long to reach his destination.

The stables of Mirkwood were not as large as one might expect, based on the size of his cavalry. The war horses tended to themselves better than most and roamed largely unhindered in the plains surrounding the forest; having a special kinship to the elves that had bred them for so many centuries, the horses came readily when called for, and withstood patiently even less urgent calls to go through training and drills. In times of peace, however, they were mainly self-sufficient and absent. And thus, the stables need not be large, only large enough to house a few steeds meant for messengers, the king’s own steed, and any pregnant mares or new foals that sought shelter. 

When he had a spare moment, Thranduil found that he enjoyed coming here to check on the mothers and their babes. The stables were, perhaps, the dirtiest and smelliest place in Mirkwood—hardly fit for a king to wander around; but, despite this, Thranduil often came here when he had a moment of respite.

At this hour, he expected that even the stable hand would be still asleep. However, as soon as he entered the stables, he knew that he was not alone. A low singing could be heard from inside one of the stalls. The words were too soft to make out, but the melody he recognized as a lullaby. Thranduil walked down the row of stalls until he turned the corner of one and saw Legolas.

He was sitting on a block of hay, his attention fixed on a dappled grey foal. He had ceased his singing, but was now murmuring to it in elvish while its mother looked on from where she lay in the corner. The foal kept nervously taking a shaky step forward, then back, undecided about this stranger. It took an extra step back when it noticed Thranduil, and even turned its head to look back at its mother, who watched impassively. 

“Good morning, adar.” Legolas did not turn to look at Thranduil, keeping his eyes trained on the foal.

“Legolas,” Thranduil returned. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say next. “I . . . I presumed you might be still resting.”

Legolas nodded, still not turning to look at him. “Most are still asleep.”

Unable to summon a response, Thranduil allowed a silence to fall between them. Legolas continued to gently coax the foal until, with some trepidation, it came close enough that Legolas could stroke its forehead, then its neck.

“I understand that you spoke with Aragorn.”

Thranduil could not help but tense—not at the subtle accusation underlying Legolas’ tone, but at the idea that Aragorn had gone to Legolas and related to him their confrontation.

“I did.”

“It did not go well.” Legolas’ tone was without inflection.

Thranduil held back a sneer, but it was a near thing. The urge seemed to rise within him unbidden, reflexive.

When Thranduil said nothing, Legolas continued as if he had confirmed. “I do not understand why you dislike him so,” he said softly; before him, the foal nuzzled into his touch. “Your disdain for him is far greater than I anticipated. Do you think so little of my choices?”

“You are your own person, Legolas. You have made that much clear. As such, you have a right to your choices, regardless of what I think.”

Legolas gave a startling bark of a hollow laugh. He shook his head, withdrawing his hand from the foal. “I sometimes cannot fathom you. I think you meant to be affirming just now, but even this is cut through with your anger and derision—”

“I do not mean to be derisive, nor am I angry— not at you. I am . . . I feel . . . betrayed.”

For the first time since they had begun speaking, Legolas whipped his head to look at his father. His blue eyes were wide with alarm. “Betrayed? By me?”

“By your leaving. I felt betrayed by that.”

Legolas stared at him, incredulous and hurt. “You are incredibly selfish.”

If anyone else had spoken in such a way, had thrown such an accusation at him, he would have served them the severest of reprimands. And the words did sting, no matter that they were true. But, because it was Legolas to speak them, Thranduil felt no compulsion to quarrel. “And somehow, you are not. I take no credit for that.”

“What is it that you mean to say?”

“That I love you.”

The silence that followed his words was deafening. Legolas continued to stare at him as if he was not quite sure what he was hearing, or if he should believe it.

He could not be blamed. After Legolas’ mother had perished, Thranduil had withdrawn most, if not all, signs of affection. It had not been intentional; but the pain of his loss had been so sharp and keen that he felt he could not bear it. Legolas had never seen his despair because Thranduil had hidden it from him; but, in doing so, he hid every other emotion as well.

Looking back, he realized it was the most selfish act of his life—to spare his son his grief, and in doing so spare him his love also. It was a remarkable blessing that Legolas had grown fine, kind, and strong without it. Though they were father and son by blood, they were little more than familiar strangers. They knew each other deeply, yet not at all. At least, it seemed that way now, with so much between them.

It caused a deep and warm pain to grow in his chest. He almost wanted to remain silent, but continued, steadier than he felt: 

“I have loved you always. You are my entire world, _nin red_. You are the only reason for me to continue upon this wretched earth. You have not heard me say it enough, if ever you remember, but it is true. And it is the reason that I despise Aragorn, or any other paramour you might take. It is . . . a sometimes powerful, ugly, and consuming thing, the love of a parent.”

The horses’ steady breathing and the occasional whinny were the only sounds that penetrated air. Legolas seemed to be trapped in a trance, watching Thranduil with his unearthly bright blue eyes, expression slack. He was so transfixed that he jumped when the foal, curious, nuzzled at his cheek with its soft nose. The gesture was enough to shake Legolas from his trance, and he returned to petting the foal, albeit somewhat dazedly.

Thranduil looked on, steeling himself for his next words. He managed them, but not without some difficulty:

“He is . . . a fine man. Aragorn.”

Legolas blinked in surprise. “He is.”

It seemed that Legolas was waiting for him to say something further, but Thranduil shook his head. “I am afraid that is the most compliment I can give him at the moment.”

Much to Thranduil’s relief, Legolas’ expression broke out into a soft, fond smile. He chuckled quietly as he petted the foal one last time and stood. “I suppose it would be too much to ask of you, just yet.”

“Indeed.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking at one another. For once, it did not feel like a separating silence, or one that exaggerated the distance between them. It was not peaceful or easy, but tentative. Perhaps, even hopeful.

Finally, Thranduil spoke:        

“Would you care to go riding?”

Legolas smiled. “It is very fine out.”

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

They saddled up two horses and took them out of the forest in the direction of the ruins of Esgaroth, where they spent a few peaceful hours riding along the edges of the lake. They spoke little, if at all, but the ride was imbued with a serenity that needed not for words. The grass was still dewy, and a fog rose like a spectre across the lake, only to dissipate once the sun fully rose in the sky.

By the time they returned to the stables, the rest of the fortress was stirring. A stable hand put up the horses for them, and Legolas took his leave, returning to the Gondorian party.

Through council meetings and audiences later that day, Thranduil continued to think of that morning ride, and his conversation with Legolas. He replayed the words over and over in his mind, considering, warring with himself.

It was by chance that, later that day, he was returning to his chambers when he passed Aragorn. He was in the company of one of Thranduil’s finest general, Anándiras; as they passed, both bowed their heads to Thranduil in deference.

They had almost reached the end of the hall when Thranduil, making up his mind, turned and called out:

“Lord Aragorn.”

Aragorn and Anándiras stopped, both turning to Thranduil as he approached them. Aragorn, with some measure of apprehension, stepped forward to meet him, while Anándiras respectfully kept her distance.

Aragorn gave a small bow of his head once more. His humility was so genuine that the small silver crown looked rather out of place on his head. “King Thranduil?”

“I wish that I had not spoken so harshly last evening.”

It was most certainly not an apology but it was an admission of sorts, one that the proud King of Mirkwood seldom gave. The significance of the statement was not lost on Aragorn, whose eyebrows raised just slightly.

“I hope that our future conversations will be more amenable for both of us, your highness.”

It was a somewhat awkward response, but it was enough. Thranduil inclined his head, took his leave, and did his best not to storm off in the other direction.

That evening, Thranduil sat at his desk, writing letter after scrapped letter to Elrond. The white raven that served as his messenger sat patiently on its perch, waiting to be sent off; but Thranduil found all of his words dissatisfying, and eventually gave up the venture. Perhaps he would write some other time, when he might not end up regretting what he sent.

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

The next morning, Thranduil met the Gondorian party at the east gate to see them off. When he arrived, they were all but ready to depart; several elves were helping them attach supply packs to their ponies, and there was even some warm hand-shaking going on between the men and elves. Thranduil watched this with interest; he’d had no idea that his people had become even remotely fond of these mortals.

Seeing his father, Legolas stepped away from his white horse. He came up to Thranduil, giving him a now-familiar soft smile.

“I am glad we were able to see one another.”

Thranduil’s chest tightened. “I am glad we were able to talk,” he returned.

Legolas looked down for a moment, almost as if steeling himself, and then brought his gaze back to his father’s. “Perhaps . . . perhaps, I might visit again in the spring? For _Nost-na-Lothien_?”

Thranduil could not help but smile. It was a small smile, and not unguarded; all the same, he felt some of the tension in him ease, knowing that this was not longer-lived farewell. “You are welcome any time, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled up at him again and, for a moment, Thranduil saw a glimpse of the child he once was. “Thank you, adar.”

This time, it was Thranduil who reached out and clasped Legolas’ shoulders. The gesture, and its public nature, felt unnatural; it certainly earned him several astonished and curious looks from the elves in attendance. But the expression of gratitude and warmth it put on Legolas’ face was worth the scrutiny and uncertainty.

The touch lasted only a moment. Then, Thranduil stepped back and gave Legolas a more formal half-bow. “Be safe, Legolas.”

Legolas returned the bow with a smile. As he did so, Thranduil looked over Legolas’ shoulder to notice Aragorn, who was watching them somewhat surreptitiously.

Thranduil considered for a moment. After their encounter yesterday, he arguably need say no more to Aragorn before they next meet. Still, as he stepped away from his son, aware of Aragorn’s gaze still upon him, he decided that there was, indeed, something he needed to say to the man.

Thranduil stepped past Legolas and began making his way towards Aragorn, and felt Legolas’ curious eyes follow his progress. _Good: I am, after all, doing this for you_ , he thought, somewhat bitterly, as he came to stand before the king of men.

Aragorn was dressed in traveling clothes and wore no crown this morning. He was nearly indistinguishable from his traveling companions, save for the quiet grace that permeated his entire being, and even this had nothing to do with royalty. As Thranduil approached he maintained a mild, almost expectant look; he inclined his head in a bow when the Elvenking finally stood before him.

“My Lord Thranduil: we thank you for your hospitality, and for seeing us off this morning.”

The words seemed oddly genuine for such a rehearsed statement; it was a diplomatic skill that Thranduil had never managed (or bothered) to learn. Platitudes irked him; he preferred to speak frankly, confrontationally, if necessary.

“I cannot say that I have found your stay entirely pleasant; however, it has been enlightening.”

Aragorn said nothing to this, but continued to look up at him. Before, Thranduil would have assigned his bearing to arrogance; but, now that he looked more closely, it was obvious that Aragorn’s comportment was that of a man who was accustomed to dealing with demanding, cantankerous kings. Kings who were deaf and stubbornly inflexible. Aragorn was prepared to listen to whatever Thranduil had to say, regardless of how unpleasant or unreasonable.

And this, more than anything, diminished what little fight remained spoiling in Thranduil, and he gave an uncharacteristic sigh.

“You must understand that I cannot simply give you my blessing . . . however, you may endeavour to earn it.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he recovered quickly. He did not smile in victory, or at the prospect of having come to some kind of understanding with the Elvenking. He simply nodded once, and then bowed his head more deeply, supplication belied by the surety of his words:—

“I shall, my lord.”

 

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

 

Thranduil watched the party depart, lingering at the east gate until the last horse was swallowed up by the forest. They would follow the river toward Dale; once out of the forest and able to travel with more speed, they would travel along the periphery of the lake where Thranduil and Legolas had gone riding the day before. They were expected to make Erebor well before nightfall.

He stood for several minutes after they had disappeared, staring into the dark depths of the forest. There was an emptiness within him that he was not familiar with. It tugged at the edges of him, twisting him slowly into an unfamiliar shape. This was different from the last time he had watched Legolas leave, intentionally so. He had made as much peace as he was able with Legolas, and with Lord Aragorn; still, he did not feel content.

But he did not precisely feel _malcontent_ either. The apprehension that he had felt before Legolas arrived had completely dissipated; the anxiety that they may never return to some semblance of warmth and kinship—that he might have lost his son entirely—had also mostly vanished.

What he was left with, still, was his longing. This love that was so strong it all but consumed him. It felt almost unnatural. Since the passing of his wife, Thranduil held no others dear to him but Legolas, and event this selfishly, jealously. Making peace with Legolas and Aragorn had done nothing to assuage the longing that he felt, or the sharp tug in his chest at watching them leave.

_It is . . . a sometimes powerful, ugly, and consuming thing, the love of a parent._

His own words came echoing back to him. He nearly felt ashamed, thinking about them. So unlike the seemingly pure love that he had observed from Elrond to Arwen. Perhaps Thranduil would never be rid of his almost violent jealously. Only time would tell.

Perhaps, Legolas too, would one day know what this felt like.

A bird called overhead, and it reminded Thranduil of the white raven that had sat patiently at his desk the night before. The morning was still new, and Thranduil felt that his thoughts were clear and orderly enough to re-attempt writing to Lord Elrond. Thus, he left the east gate and journeyed back to his rooms, mentally composing his missive as he went.

 

 _Fin._     

 

_For you, my love_

_Not spoken of_

_And this you hath despaired;_

_And after the war_

_He loved you more_

_And I was unprepared._


End file.
